The morning of the Quidditch final dawned bright, but there was an electricity in the air sharper than the spring chill. By breakfast, the Great Hall was awash in a sea of scarlet and gold — even Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students had rallied behind Gryffindor, much to Slytherin's collective irritation.
The Gryffindor team strode in like war heroes, greeted with raucous applause. At the Slytherin table, Adrian Pucey scowled into his porridge.
"I still can't believe Potter's got a bloody Firebolt," he muttered, glancing sideways at Eleanor, who was calmly sipping her tea and reading a thick, battered novel.
"Potter's got all the patience of a Blast-Ended Skrewt," she said dryly, eyes flicking across the page. "If he grabs the Snitch before their Chasers score anything, we still win. Quidditch is about points, not pretty brooms."
Pucey huffed. "We were off our rockers letting Malfoy on the team. Honestly. Flint must've taken a bribe — the boy flies like a sack of turnips."
Eleanor turned a page with the air of someone far above it all. "Considering Flint looks like his mum got drunk and snogged a troll, I'm not surprised by his decision-making skills."
Pucey turned to gape at her. "Merlin's beard, Eleanor, could you justnotfor one morning? This is the Cup we're talking about!"
And with that, he yanked the book right out of her hands.
A dangerous silence fell.
Eleanor's brown eyes narrowed. "Did you just—? Pucey. You just took my novel.Out of my hands?"
The iciness in her voice made the air around them drop a degree or two.
Adrian blinked down at the book, realising — rather too late — the severity of his mistake.
"I—uh—sorry, Nell," he stammered, thrusting it back. "I didn't mean to. Just—nerves."
"Probably mixed with a bit of brain rot and dangerously low blood sugar," Eleanor said, snatching her book back and giving it a pat. "Eat your porridge and take your undeniably fit arse to the pitch."
That earned her a bemused snort. "Did you just compliment me?"
She didn't look up. "Eat your porridge, Pucey."
Once he'd wolfed it down, Adrian did look a bit less ghostly. He stood, straightened his robes, and deliberately didn't look at the Gryffindor table.
"Try not to fall off your broom," Eleanor called, almost too casually.
He turned back, brows raised. "You'll cheer for me?"
"Only if you earn it," she said sweetly.
He grinned and jogged out of the Hall.
Eleanor sighed and sipped her tea, now cold. She grimaced and cast a side glance at the Gryffindors, where Oliver Wood was flapping about like a manic seagull, yelling tactics and formation shifts. Potter barely had time to bite into a sausage before being herded out.
From her spot, Eleanor couldn't tell Fred from George, but whichever twin it was looked pale beneath his freckles.
Before following the crowds to the pitch, she doubled back to the dungeons for her shawl. The sun might've been out, but Quidditch finals could go on for hours — and this was Scotland, after all.
She made it just in time for the team announcements.
"And here comes the Slytherin team," boomed Lee Jordan's voice, "led by Marcus Flint — who's apparently chosen brute force over actual skill this season—"
"Oi, Jordan! Keep your mouth shut, you prejudiced prat!" shrieked Berenice Yaxley from the Slytherin stands.
Her platinum hair was braided tight and gleamed in the sun, and her face bore two emerald green snakes slithering across her cheeks.
"He doesn't evenknowthe players," she muttered furiously as Eleanor slid in beside her. "'Adjustments to the formation'? Half our team's been in training all year!"
Eleanor only raised an eyebrow and turned her eyes to the sky as Madame Hooch blew her whistle.
Fourteen brooms kicked off the grass and shot into the air.
"I thought you'd be holed up in the library," said Berenice, eyes sharp. "With O.W.L.s coming up."
"I had a rare bout of house spirit," said Eleanor with a shrug. "It confused my system."
"Well, you picked the right match. This one's already shaping up to be chaos."
And it was. Flint had evidently mistaken the sport for an all-out war, and the Slytherin side wasn't playing — they wereattacking. Berenice raged at every foul, every idiotic move.
"That was Alicia Spinnet! Bole's just whacked her in theface!" she shouted, practically foaming at the mouth. "Montague, you thick-skulled twit, that's not a Quaffle, it's herhead!"
"Sit down, Bunny," Eleanor muttered, pulling her friend back onto the bench.
"Don't call me that in public!"
"You're making a scene."
"Ishouldmake a scene! Look at them — they've got the strategy of a drunk Hippogriff. No wonder Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw are cheering for the Gryffindorks."
"Would've been a different story ifyouwere Captain."
Berenice huffed. "At this rate, I'd have been happy with a team of Cornish pixies. Flint couldn't spot talent if it tap-danced on his nose. Adrian's the only decent one out there. Malfoy's passable with enough training."
Eleanor said nothing. She agreed, of course — but some truths were better left unsaid during a match.
Suddenly, a roar went up as George Weasley retaliated with an elbow straight to Bole's nose.
"Good on you," Eleanor muttered under her breath, a flicker of smug pride surprising even herself.
"Come on, Malfoy, do something useful," Berenice hissed. "Adrian can't score all the goalsandcarry the team."
It was 40–10 to Gryffindor, and Slytherin's chances were evaporating by the minute. Then, just when it seemed the match couldn't get more disgraceful, Malfoy grabbed Potter's broom — not to block him, but to literally hold himback.
"Merlin's knickers," Eleanor groaned, head in hands.
Madame Hooch blew her whistle — penalty.
Luckily, Spinnet's fury overtook her aim, and she botched the shot. Seconds later, Pucey soared into the scoring zone and slammed the Quaffle through the middle hoop.
"Yes, Pucey!" Berenice shouted, leaping up.
"Pucey scores! 70–20 to Gryffindor!" called Lee Jordan, his voice hoarse.
There was a glimmer of hope — just enough to remind the Slytherins of what might have been.
"Johnson's got it — go after her, you pillocks!" Berenice shrieked, just as Potter appeared from nowhere and blocked both Flint and Montague in one move.
Eleanor's heart sank — but then, she saw it.
"Wait — Malfoy's seen the Snitch!"
Berenice's eyes narrowed. "Finally."
Malfoy dived, hair streaming behind him like a banner. Potter, distracted as ever playing the hero, didn't notice — not until the entire Gryffindor stand screamed.
A Bludger whizzed past Potter's ear.
"Too close," muttered Eleanor.
Now it was a race. Potter versus Malfoy.
The crowd held its breath.
And then — Potter's fingers closed around the Snitch.
A deafening cheer erupted. Gryffindor had won.
The stands exploded. Red and gold banners waved wildly as the Gryffindors leapt the fences and hoisted their teammates into the air.
Berenice just stared.
"I can't believe it," she whispered.
Eleanor didn't answer. She merely nodded once, solemnly.
"Come on, Bunny. Let's go find Adrian."
They found him sitting in the middle of the pitch, shoulders slumped, face buried in his hands.
"Oi," said Berenice gently. "You alive under there?"
Eleanor knelt and tugged his hands away. His green eyes were blazing.
"I can't believe it," he rasped. "It wasours. We had it."
"No use crying over spilt pumpkin juice," Eleanor said briskly. She shared a glance with Berenice. "Come on. Let's go get properly wrecked. I've got some Muggle stuff hidden under my bed."
Adrian blinked. "Best idea you've ever had."
Berenice raised an eyebrow. "Shocking. I actually agree."
As they turned to go, Eleanor paused. Across the pitch, George Weasley was grinning at her, all freckles and triumph. She met his eyes and, to her own surprise, smiled — just a little.
She shrugged. He beamed.
Then she turned her back on the sight of Potter lifting the Cup over his head and walked away.
There was whisky waiting, and she had every intention of forgetting the look on Pucey's face.
At least for one night.